From Now On We Are Enemies
by Little Miss Maybe
Summary: Alistair Theirin, typical high school sophomore. An introspective piece through the lens of the seven deadly sins and his interactions with the people in his life. (Eventual Alistair/fem!Aeducan)
1. Sloth

Alistair dropped his forehead on his desk with a groan. There was no way he was going to pass this biology test, even with all the extra tutoring Ms. Wynne had so generously given him outside of class. He turned his head to the side and watched the evening sky mournfully as bright shades of pink and orange began to stain the clouds. He had wasted his entire afternoon trying to study and all he had accomplished was understanding even less than he had before.

Well, maybe he had not really spent _that_ much time studying. It was more like he had sat at his desk and stared at all his papers blankly, not knowing where to begin. Either way, the sun would be setting soon and there was a restlessness building up deep down in his stomach that was making it unbearable to keep sitting there.

A loud bark startled him out of his internal conflict. He grinned as he pushed out his chair, just in time for his dog to place its front paws on his lap, whining for attention.

Alistair patted the dog's head, grateful for the distraction. "Hey Barkspawn! Sorry buddy, I know I haven't been paying attention to you." He briefly tried to remember where he had gotten the name "Barkspawn" from anyway, but he lost his train of thought; the dog barked and licked his fingers before hopping down and trotting to the door, looking back at him expectantly.

He found himself stifling a laugh. "Fine, fine, I'll come play with you." He had no intentions to study any more that night anyway. Maybe he would refresh his memory in the morning. He grabbed his dog's ball and walked to the door.

Somewhere, deep down, he knew he was never going to get around to studying for the biology test.


	2. Gluttony

"Is that scribble a squirrel or an artistic expression of the futility of all your hopes and dreams?"

Alistair wrinkled his nose but did not look up from his doodle. "It's actually a dragon, Morrigan." He had begun sketching it absentmindedly during math class, and now he was still tinkering away with his pencil through his lunch period. The image he had in his head was vague at best, but nevertheless he had the distinct impression that his drawing could not capture whatever it was he was trying to put down on paper. He was no artist, but the sensation was still a source of frustration.

Morrigan shrugged noncommittally. "Well clearly you're never going to be an artist, so as far as I'm concerned, it still represents that your efforts are in vain."

"The Chantry says everyone's talents are gifts from the Maker," he asserted, somewhat defensively.

She raised an eyebrow. "Like I needed more evidence that no such being exists," she replied, feigning lament.

He closed his notebook and hid it away in his backpack, eyebrows threaded low on his forehead in annoyance. "What do you want? Shouldn't you be hiding away in the chemistry lab, working on whatever nefarious plan you've managed to justify as your senior project?"

"I can't fault a wee sophomore for fearing what he does not understand," she cooed. "Why, you're practically still a babe!"

"Yep, I'm definitely a babe," he agreed with a smirk, earning him a withering sigh.

"A little birdie told me you have been trying to convince Lady Aeducan of just that," she said after a moment, embellishing her friend's name sardonically. The tips of Alistair's ears were hot.

"What- Where did you hear that?" he stammered.

"So, 'tis true after all."

"Huh? I didn't say that!" He relented when she narrowed her eyes at him dangerously. "I mean, not that I wouldn't _want_ to, maybe, it's just I can barely _look_ at her straight, let alone talk to her, and also-"

Morrigan waved her hand dismissively. "I don't really care," she said. "The only reason I'm tolerating your presence right now is because I wanted to warn you to give up."

He bristled. "What?"

She pursed her lips, yellow eyes flashing darkly under her eyeshadow, and for just a moment, Alistair thought he saw her bathed in fire, blood splattering her cheeks. He blinked and the vision was gone.

She had been talking in the meantime, he realized, and he had missed the beginning of her little speech. "… And since the incident with her father forced her to break up with Gorim, she has been avoiding the subject of relationships altogether-"

"I already know I don't stand a chance, Morrigan," he cut in. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were telling me to back off so you could have her all to yourself. Or," he paused, "maybe you're jealous that I'm thinking about her instead of y-"

"Finish that sentence and you _will_ die a painful death," she threatened. He believed her, too; he had no doubt that she could whip up some horrible concoction and poison his lunch. He might not _die_ , necessarily – she would never risk jail time for such a minor offense to her pride – but he certainly would not put it past her to make him sick for a month, at the very least. She was the chemistry department's pride and joy for a reason.

"Look, Morrigan," he said evenly, "I get it. Some small part of you, some _tiny, microscopic_ portion of your ant-sized heart, actually cares enough that you don't want to see me rejected. So thanks for the warning, but it's kind of pointless since I already know she's miles out of my league."

"I did not come here to talk about _you_." She was grinding her teeth on every consonant. "Although I realize with your single-celled brain, 'tis difficult for you to distinguish that the world does not, in fact, revolve around you."

"Stop insulting my intelligence!"

"This isn't _about_ intelligence-"

" _You're_ not about intelligence."

Her eye twitched at the sheer childishness of his retort. "Clearly, with remarks like that, you have shown your true genius," she muttered. She shook her head. "But once again, this is not about you. This is about her."

"Yes, yes, she's of noble blood and it is forbidden for a commoner like me to marry into the royal family," he drawled, sarcastic. At least, as far as he knew there was no royalty at their high school, but being lavishly rich was about the same anyway.

"I happen to have some interest in the wellbeing of this particular human," Morrigan said, pronouncing "human" as if it were a foreign concept. Alistair wondered, not for the first time, if she were perhaps another species after all. "If you endanger her in any way, you _will_ regret it. Most likely by turning green for a few days, or losing mobility in your arms. I've always wanted to experiment on a human. Actually, Mr. Irving _does_ owe me a favor…" She spoke with such distant nonchalance that he almost believed she was talking about what kind of clothing she liked instead of how best to make him suffer.

"Right," he said slowly, "I think I'm going to avoid coming to school for a few days."

"I'm not telling you to back off because you don't have a chance," she elaborated, "although you certainly _don't_. But you're a pest. She has far better things to do with her time than entertain a flea."

He did not bother denying it. He knew she was right. "She also has better things to do than hang out with a witch," he replied weakly. "Or the meaner thing that rhymes with 'witch.'"

Morrigan rolled her eyes. "I know you're delusional most of the time, but even _you_ must realize your illusions of grandeur are just that. You are nothing but a thoughtless idiot, too self-absorbed to think about the wellbeing of your supposed 'love,' too inconsiderate to even try to comprehend how she feels after just breaking up." She stopped to observe him for a beat, and then concluded her assessment: "You're a vulture."

He frowned. "Wait, how did I go from a flea to a vulture? That doesn't make any evolutionary sense. No wonder you dropped out of bio to take chem."

"'Tis a _metaphor_ , you fool. No wonder you're failing English," she hissed.

"I'm not failing!" he protested, then added lamely, "Barely."

"I can _feel_ my brain cells dying in your presence." She crossed her arms, her face screwed up like she had just been told to wear hot pink. "I've made my point. I'm leaving before I waste anymore of my life on you." She strode away, disappearing as abruptly as she had come.

But her words lingered. _A vulture, huh?_ That was a new one. He had expected being compared to a flea because, really, it was an apt simile. Fleas were useless insects, insignificant, and yet obnoxious to deal with, surviving as they did on their vampiric diets. He could see the similarities. He was not any good at anything – his dismal track record with sports and his below-average grades could attest to that. Nobody needed him. In fact, as Morrigan had so thoroughly explained, his presence was more than unwanted. But he still continued to make a pest of himself. At least his parents had been smart and dropped him off at his uncle's house immediately so they would not have to deal with him. Poor Eamon had had to tolerate him for something like ten years before he managed to oust him to the nearest Chantry orphanage.

He unearthed his notebook from his backpack and tried to distract himself by adding to his doodle but his hand trembled when he focused on the small details. He made a mistake and moved to erase it, but accidentally erased a whole section of the wing. Irritated, he clumsily attempted to pencil it back in but he could not get it to look as good as it had before. A hot flash of anger possessed his hand and he scribbled thick, dark lines all over his work until the paper ripped from the pressure.

He thought the tear looked like a downturned sword.


	3. Greed and Fear

_My policy on this site is to not write little notes and things because of the formatting (I only add notes to stories on AO3), but I figured I should explain the fact that this chapter is both Greed_ and _Fear. See, the demons in Dragon Age follow the pattern of the Seven Deadly Sins EXCEPT for Greed. There is no Greed demon. It's replaced by Fear. So I decided to combine Greed and Fear into one. Like... being afraid of one's own greed pretty much._

* * *

There she was again. The Vice Principal's daughter, strutting around the halls like a princess who believed she was already queen.

Maybe it was the way she tilted her head when she was challenged, eyes flitting over the offending person as if taking their measurements for a custom coffin. Maybe it was the way she smiled, delicate, _knowing_ , her diplomacy a thin veil for the unspoken threat of blackmail should she ever be crossed. Or maybe it was the way she talked, slowing her voice and annunciating every word like she expected her audience was not intelligent enough to understand her without the effort.

Whatever the reason, Anora Mac Tir was an irritation beyond words. She was the personification of undeserved entitlement: someone whose social status was not only given to her by her father rather than earned, but flaunted her "power" on top of that.

But the worst part was not her lavish clothes or extravagant hairstyles. The worst part was that somewhere, deep down, Alistair wanted to be able to stalk the halls as she did, to speak as if the Maker's own words were coming from his lips and to have people listen with the devotion of Andraste herself.

It was not a desire that weighed heavily on his mind. It crouched in the corner, covered in dust, forgotten for the most part. But when he watched her flip her hair over her shoulder, it crept out from its recess. When he overheard her laughing instead of studying in the library, it slithered into his heart. When she clung to Cailan's arm, giggling and fluttering her eyelashes, it seized up in his chest because when she was with her boyfriend, she glowed with genuine _happiness_.

He wanted that life. He wanted her power. He wanted her joy. He wanted it so badly that he shrank from it. He avoided her, and kept his head down when he absolutely had to pass by her between classes or in the cafeteria.

He knew that if he bothered to examine the ache, his quiet yearning would morph into anger. _That_ was what covered him in goose bumps, what made his skin crawl and hair stand on end; for he did not fear her, he feared that he was _right_. He feared that he truly did deserve better and he feared what he would do to achieve it.

She was kneeling over her father's headless corpse, shoulders shaking, teardrops flecking the ground like bloodstains. She looked up at him but despite her glassy eyes, her face was empty. He followed her vacant stare and realized his sword was red. The sight caused the strength to leave his fingers and it clattered to the floor, but red dripped from his hands accusingly.

He jumped, head whirling around to confirm his surroundings. It was only math class but the daydream colored his vision still. He blinked it away and tried to focus on the equation in front of him.

He could have had her life if his birth had not been a mistake, if his father had valued family over rumors, or even if Uncle Eamon had cared about him more than a new wife. But he could never allow himself to wish for such things. The monster that lay dormant within him was too terrifying to unleash.


End file.
